The best thing I saw recently was the effing excellent second season of ‘Party Down.’ It’s also the worst thing, because being buried on a no-name cable network, nobody else watched it and now it’s cancelled. I blame ‘Glee.’ Jane Lynch, who gave the show some of its most amazing moments, bounced to that Fox sing-along after the first season, leaving me feeling betrayed. Her replacement, Megan Mullally, did an adequate job, but you cannot touch Lynch for defining awkward moments. What was left was still a thunderous buffet of talent – this guy, this guy, this guy, this girl – and some of the most inspired cameos ever. (Um, Steve “Why Haven’t They Made Three Men and Pre-Teen Lady yet?” Guttenberg anybody?) But, now it’s gone. And ‘Two and a Half Men’ and ‘The Big Bang Theory,’ two of the more deplorably unfunny sitcoms for apes (and my toddler nieces), have smug snug spots on network televison, and “stars” with grotesque paycheques. Why am I destined, nay FATED, to fall in love with television that is so good it gets cancelled/ignored? (see ‘The Wire,’ ‘Arrested Development,’ ‘Friday Night Lights’ ET-Freakin-Cetera.) I don’t get it. I just thank God for ‘Breaking Bad,’ ‘Community’ and ‘Mad Men’ – quality television that thankfully millions watch alongside of me. (Re: ‘Community:’ if you haven’t seen Donald “Troy” Glover’s “Girls Aren’t To Be Trusted,” done with his troupe Derrick Comedy, then you haven’t laughed properly today.)
Honourable Mentions: Louis C.K.’s new show, ‘Louie.’ The first two episodes and the opening credits are excellent and highly re-watchable. ‘When You’re Strange, a film about The Doors.’ For someone who doesn’t love them, but conversely thought I knew it all after seeing Stone’s movie, this doc had some amazing “how did they get that?” footage, info I didn’t know about the complexity behind the musical prowess of the men in the band other than Jim, all narrated by Johnny Depp’s dulcet voice.
It’s summer time and that means I get drunk off the suntan lotion fumes of the young and reckless, in my “5 minutes to the beach, bra!” neighbourhood. I love the smell of coconuts, mango and anti-cancer causing agents mingling together so intensely. It reminds me of a time and place that I’ve never been – where everybody is good looking, can surf, doesn’t get sunstroke, and plays good guitar songs around a well-built beach campfire after the sun has been swallowed into the sea. Unfortunately, the best smelling lotions are the ones that you slather on as an oily gift to the sun, preparing to toast all your parts, with no SPF to be found. I can’t do that. Pigment-wise, I am a bomb shelter baby as opposed to a Coppertone baby. Any square inch of me not marked by a mole is the colour C0 M0 Y0 K0, meaning this: the sun spies me walking out the door, narrows it’s laser beam, blasts me for about 10 minutes, to the point where I’m red and woozy, then high fives the rest of the solar system. I go from lily white to painfully rouge fast, unless I’m spritzed with an SPF of at least 1000. At least the stuff I use, Kinesys Spray Sunscreen, has a light fresh fruity smell that I also like, and consider my trademark summer smell.
The best thing I tasted recently was a cedar-roasted, pesto-crusted salmon dish as a main, with a smoked cheddar and spinach dip as a starter. I did not make this food nor did someone I love make it for me in a safe gluten-free environment. I got this from a busy restaurant that serves regular food to a lot of people quickly, and I ate every bite and it was delicious and safe. Thank you Cactus Club Café. Thanks for having a gluten free menu online that consists of more of than:
1. Salad.
2. Sucks to be you friend.
It made me really confident ordering even when the waitress, a sweet girl clearly hired solely for her ability to fill out a button up shirt, looked uncertain as to what gluten-free might mean. Every bite was ridiculously good and flavourful, and when I can feel like a regular person eating in a restaurant, a very rare feeling indeed, it’s worth trumpeting about. So thanks again Cactus Club. You’re my new favourite.
The best thing I’ve heard in a while is Karen Elson’s debut album, ‘The Ghost Who Walks.’ This is weird on many levels: I typically hate female artists that don’t spit and hurt themselves; I should be roaringly jealous and hate her guts because she’s a model whose life partner is Jack White; and slow songs typically make me sad, bored or tune out. But this album is a perfect little summertime treat; an excellent soundtrack to a picnic with mismatched china and over ripe summer fruit. Give it a listen and see if you agree.
Up until a week ago, I unnecessarily prided myself on never having paid for an iPhone app. There are enough free ones out there to keep me happy and occupied during any down time where I’m not working, writing, reading or procrastinating about naming our kid. But then, OH BUT THEN, I played Peggle on Nuv’s phone while we were on our anniversary holiday, and I now have a problem. A monkey on my back, if you will. And it’s name is Peggle. I bought it two Sundays ago and I venture to guess I have lost approximately 40 hours playing it since then. So, while it may be the best thing I’ve touched lately, swiping the phone to unlock it, aligning my balls to shoot, hitting the FIRE button, it’s now about as healthy as rubbing the iPhone along my gums. I’ve snuck in games at work, while I eat my dinner, while watching tv, on the toilet, and worst of all – in the few hours before sleep laying in bed, where I have to set an ALARM to remind me to turn it off and get some rest. It’s getting a bit out of control. I’m trying now to limit my play time so that the other elements of life can get taken care of, and so I don’t turn into some crazed gamer with stretched out necks on my t-shirts, a dull glaze in my eyes and corn chip dandruff. Ultimately, one singular thought makes me click off the game and get on with something else – I don’t want to have to name my kid Peggle.
